“She threatened me.”
Lady snorts. “You threatened her position.”
Same thing.
And if Carmen has eyes everywhere, if she’s already turning the club into a chessboard, then my little apartment is just another square.
Back at Lady’s condo, the difference between our lives feels almost surreal.
Her place sits high above Biscayne Bay in a tower made of glass and money. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the living room. The water outside glitters like a sheet of diamonds. Boats drift across the bay like toys, careless and expensive.
“This is the cheapest unit in the building,” she says casually.
I stare down at the infinity pool two floors below and laugh once, sharp and disbelieving.
Lady rolls her eyes. “I’ve got a residency tonight at Eclipse. Private floor. Influencers. Ball players. Crypto idiots. The whole circus.”
“And you want me there why?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Because hiding makes people think you’re weak,” she says.
The words settle into my bones.
They sound like something Diablo would say.
Which makes me hate them.
Which makes me need them.
The next few hours blur together.
Steam fills the bathroom while hot water pounds against my sore ribs. Lady stands behind me at the sink workingconditioner into my hair like she’s scrubbing away years of mistakes.
“Rico doesn’t get to mark you,” she mutters, scrubbing harder.
Makeup brushes sweep across my face a little while later. Foundation hides the fading bruises along my collarbone. Highlighter catches cheekbones I forgot I had. She lines my lips a shade darker than I’d usually wear, like she wants my mouth to look dangerous.
She blows out my hair until it falls glossy down my back. My nails get painted a deep red that looks like warning lights. All the while she talks about how she never does her own nails anymore, but she’s not forgotten how. She’s not forgotten where she came from.
She’s sweet, but I can’t help but feel like that Little Havana charity case. I tell her as much.
“Darling. That was me, too. Now look at me.”
Finally she holds up a dress.
Black.
Elegant.
Cut low but not desperate.
“You’re not that biker’s la sancha,” she says.
“Side chick, no, not me,” I say, and the words sink straight into the center of me.
When I step into heels, Disco squawks from his travel cage on the kitchen island like he approves of the transformation.
“¡Mami rica!” he yells, loud enough to make Lady choke on a laugh.
